Manchester United vs Bradford City
Jake entered the dressing room first, took three strides to the tactic board, and drew three arrows. Just three. No color. No explanation.
The room filled in silence. Boots scraped against tile. Silva dropped onto the bench, towel over his head, breathing through his mouth like a man who had been underwater for too long.
Vélez didn't sit—he stood in the corner, staring at the arrows on the board as if they held a code only he could decipher.
Nobody waited for Jake to speak; they knew it would come when the room settled.
Chapman rolled his shoulders back and adjusted the tape around his ankle. Richter drained a bottle of isotonic in two long gulps, then crushed the plastic between his palms.
Finally, Jake turned from the board.
"We go out and break their tempo." His voice was steady, unwavering. "One goal. Then we go again. If they beat us, they beat us after running for it."
No grand speeches. No tactical overhaul. Just clarity.
